


Four-Week Fall

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Janine has a mysterious past, Kissing, Missing Scene, Post-The Sign of Three, Pre-His Last Vow, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Misses John, Sherlock feels a bit guilty, Snogging, The missing bathtub scene, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day-by-day account of the four weeks following John and Mary's wedding, leading up to the day John discovers Janine in Sherlock's bedroom at Baker Street. During this time, Sherlock falls back into an apparent drug habit, Janine falls for Sherlock, and Sherlock finds himself missing John and feeling conflicted about using Janine. How far can he string her along, how much is real, and how much is for the case? And what happened in that bathtub?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Week 1

_Monday, two days after John and Mary’s wedding_

Mrs. Hudson peered around the door to check on Sherlock. He was still standing there in his dressing gown, staring out the window. She shook her head, knowing it was no use asking if he wanted tea. He’d been there for hours, it seemed. She reckoned it was to do with the new client, the very posh and perfumed Lady Smallwood, who had come to Baker Street late last night looking quite upset.

Well, it was probably good for Sherlock to have a case to work on now that the wedding was over, Mrs. Hudson thought as she tiptoed downstairs to her own flat. He had left the dance early, she noticed, even leaving his beloved violin behind. She had returned it to him the next day, but he didn’t even thank her. He just got up from his chair and went to his room and shut the door without a word. Typical, she thought with a little sniff.

***

Sherlock stood at the window turning the pieces around in his mind, examining various facts and options. Charles Augustus Magnussen. Media mogul. Blackmailer. The compromising letters Lady Smallwood had asked him to retrieve.

He had known the general outlines of how Magnussen operated, which were then filled in with details from Lady Smallwood and his own research. The more he learned, the more he detested the man.

The question was, where were the letters now? He needed inside information, which could be gained from one of Magnussen's employees: Janine Hawkins.

It was time to set things in motion, Sherlock thought, suddenly snapping to. He whisked his phone from the desk, scrolled through the contacts, and punched in a text:

     You owe me a dance.  
     SH

He hit send, tossed the phone back on the desk, and turned on his heel, heading to his bedroom to get dressed.

*****

“Thanks again for the coffee,” Janine smiled at him over her cup, her elbows propped up on the wooden cafe table. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you again. Especially since I don’t remember giving you my number.”

“I have all the wedding guests' numbers.” He held up his phone. "Even the caterer."

“I should have known.” She impulsively reached across the table and gave his arm a squeeze. “I wanted to tell you that you did a brilliant job as best man. A bit unconventional, but very sweet, all the same. Definitely the most memorable wedding I've ever attended.”

“Thank you,” seemed the safest response he could give.

“I looked for you later, you know. The bloke you picked out for me didn't work out. Couldn’t keep his hands to himself after a few drinks.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were looking for... an encounter.”

“Give me some credit. I prefer a little more finesse than that,” she held his gaze and licked the spoon she had used to stir sugar into her coffee. “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“I had to leave earlier than expected.”

“Too bad,” she said, placing the spoon in the saucer. “So, John and Mary are off on their honeymoon by now.”

God, he hated that treacly word. "Sex holiday,” he muttered before he could censor himself, taking a sip of his coffee.

Janine stared at him a moment, then burst out laughing. “That’s one way to describe it.”

Her phone buzzed and she looked at the screen. “It’s work.” She read the message then sighed.

"And how is Mr. Magnussen?" Sherlock spoke his name with a trace of venom.

"Oh, as demanding as ever. Just when you think you’re done for the day, you’re not. I’ve got to go.” She picked up her handbag and they both stood up. “It was good to see you,” she said.

“You too.” He hesitated, then said, “I don’t suppose you’d like to have a drink later this week...?”

She smiled at him. “I would like that very much.”

“I’ll be in touch.” He held his smile until she was out of sight, then it vanished.

 

_Saturday  
_

Eating. Talking. Drinking. So tiresome. But it had to be done. He had seen Janine twice since meeting for coffee, once for the promised after-work drink (followed by a kiss on the cheek when he hailed a cab on her behalf), and once for dinner at an Italian restaurant (followed by a chaste kiss outside her door when he saw her safely home).

It was now Saturday evening. Sherlock sat in his chair at Baker Street contemplating his next steps. He held Janine’s business card in his right hand, which he had slipped from her shoulder bag earlier. He flipped the card round and round with his fingers. The CAM Global Media logo was embossed in the lower corner below her name, contact details, and title: Personal Assistant to Mr. Magnussen. The information helped confirm the precise location of Magnussen's office within the massive corporate building.

During John and Mary's wedding dinner Janine had told him a bit about her job, information he had almost deleted before Lady Smallwood’s visit. Forging a connection with Janine, and thereby her proximity to Magnussen, would prove to be quite valuable when the right opportunity presented itself. He had no ill-will toward her; she just happened to be useful. In fact, he rather enjoyed her irreverent attitude, which would make the pretense of a romantic relationship more tolerable.

It was going to require some extended theatrics to achieve his objective, but he had acquired a great deal of practice during the two years he was supposedly dead. Surviving off the grid alone for that long had further sharpened his skills in the practical arts of manipulation.

Tonight there was a second matter to attend to. He knew about Magnussen’s tactic of seeking out the pressure points of his targets, so Sherlock would give him an obvious weakness to seize upon. A rundown crack house in a sketchy neighborhood would provide what he needed.

Sherlock changed into trainers and an old hoodie, pulled up the hood, and began walking. On more than one occasion, on particularly bad nights, he had found his way to the dilapidated house, haunting the pavement outside before turning away. This time, however, he had an agenda. He slipped through the front door where dank and acrid odors assaulted his senses. Vacant eyes followed him as he made his way down the hallway of crumbling bricks covered with graffiti.


	2. Week 2

_Sunday_

Sherlock awoke the next morning to the sound of a text alert. It was Janine, wondering if she could come around that evening. He wrote back:

     _Come at 8._

He needed tea. He pulled on his blue dressing gown and wandered out to the sitting room looking for the teapot Mrs. Hudson usually left for him. There it was, magically warm as ever. He poured a cup and his eyes landed on John’s chair. He frowned and turned away, flipping open the laptop to check his inbox.

*****

“You’re looking lovely,” Sherlock met Janine at the door to his flat that evening, dropping a kiss on her cheek.

“So are you.” She looked around, taking in the stacks of papers, case wall, and scientific oddities. “This is…” she paused. “It’s very you.”

“I suppose so.”

She held up a bottle. “I brought wine.”

After uncorking the bottle, Janine asked about some of his past cases as they drank a first and second glass.

“So what are you working on now?” she asked, pouring out the last of the wine.

“A few things. Can’t really go into detail since I’ve just started in on them.” Sherlock steered the subject elsewhere. “And you? How’s work?”

She shrugged. “It’s always busy.” A shadow momentarily clouded her face. “If nothing else, I guess you could say I learn a lot of things there.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her cryptic comment, and she laughed slightly. “It’s actually difficult for me to talk about it. Confidentiality and all that.”

“I understand.”

“In fact,” Janine said, sliding closer to him, “I don't think we should talk at all right now.” She set down her glass, leaned in, and placed a light kiss on his lips.

Sherlock was not particularly surprised by her directness. Here was where the game had to be played convincingly, and he was prepared to do so. He returned the kiss, barely managing to set his glass down before her hands wrapped behind his neck and pulled him in closer. He twined a hand in her hair and, by force of habit, became lost for a moment trying to identify her perfume…Chanel? Dior?

“Oo-ooo, Sherlock, I was at the shops today and -- oh,” Mrs. Hudson stood frozen in the doorway, staring at them, a carton of milk in her hand.

Sherlock quickly broke away from Janine and stood, straightened his jacket, cleared his throat. “Mrs. Hudson, you remember Janine, don’t you?”

Mrs. Hudson nodded slowly as Janine smoothed her skirt and said, “Hello again.”

He crossed over to Mrs. Hudson and took the milk from her. “Thank you,” he said crisply. “You might want to blink now.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know you had company,” Mrs. Hudson stammered, clasping her hands. “I don’t think I know anything anymore. I’ll just be going. Sorry.”

Sherlock sighed with exasperation as he strode to the fridge and pushed back a jar of bone fragments to make room for the milk. Well, Mrs. Hudson would notice Janine sooner or later, presuming things stayed on course.

“I think we surprised her a bit,” Janine said teasingly, coming up behind him.

“That’s a safe assumption, yes.”

“Maybe shut the door to the flat next time,” she suggested. “I should be getting home anyway. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.” She picked up her bag and went to the door. “Thanks for a lovely evening. And the snog."

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a faint smile. "I'll text you,” he called after her.

*****

The next few days passed quickly. Lestrade had enlisted Sherlock’s help on an apparent murder-suicide, which Sherlock assured him would be proven a double homicide once the ballistics report was done. In between, Sherlock made several visits to the run-down house, never lingering beyond the time it took to make a transaction. The entire point was to make Magnussen believe he had a drug habit and would pose no threat.

Janine had been busy with work as well. Sherlock was relieved that she didn’t text more than once or twice a day. Any higher maintenance would have been unbearable.

On Thursday, they arranged to meet for dinner at a place near Janine’s flat. Sherlock ate very little, his mind elsewhere as Janine chatted.

“You’re a million miles away.”

He blinked. “Sorry. I was thinking about ballistics."

“Fair enough,” she said, placing her napkin on the table. “Shall we get out of here? I could do with a walk.”

The evening was warm and Janine linked her arm through Sherlock’s as they walked along in silence. When they reached Janine’s front door, she took out her keys and met his eyes.

“So, it’s up to you. You’re welcome to come up or go.”

He filed away the double homicide and refocused on the case at hand. “I’ll come up.”

*****

The insistent series of text alerts causing his phone to vibrate across the side table was distracting, as was Janine’s tongue circling his ear. And her hands under his shirt. And that very silky spot at the nape of her neck.

After the sixth text, Janine lifted her head, brushed back her hair and sighed. “Do you need to get that?”

Sherlock reached out to grab the phone, grimacing when he saw the string of messages that ended with:

     _Phone me immediately. Now._

“Mycroft,” he hissed.

“Who?”

“My brother. He’s not going to stop until I talk to him.” Sherlock pushed Janine aside and stood up, walking a few paces away as he waited for the call to connect. “Hello, brother dear. What’s so urgent?”

He walked to the kitchen, so that Janine could only hear a few words of the terse exchange. When he returned, he was frowning while tucking in his shirt.

“Bad news?”

“It usually is when he calls. He’s invoked my help on a certain matter he can’t dirty his hands with.” He saw Janine’s confused expression. “He’s a government man. Runs the world from behind his desk.”

“Mycroft,” she repeated. “Well, can’t you tell Mike it can wait?”

“Unfortunately not. There’s a certain flight arriving at 11:15 that I need to meet.” He checked his watch. “I have to go.”

Janine sighed. “I suppose the safety of the free world depends on it.”

“Something like that, yeah,” he shrugged on his jacket, then leaned down to give her a kiss. “I’ll be in touch.”

She slumped as she heard the door close.

 

_Friday_

Tying up the business for Mycroft had been routine enough, but it made for a long night. He slept in, much of the morning gone by the time he got up.

He checked his messages and saw one from Lestrade that simply read:

_You were right._

He smiled, knowing Donovan would be pissed off. There was another message from Janine reminding him that she was traveling for work and would be back the following week. She ended it with:

     _Be good_  
 _xxx_

He glanced at the newspaper. Nothing criminal of note. Next on his list was to do nothing. He just wanted silence. He sat in his chair, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. When he opened them some time later, his gaze again landed on John’s chair.

He got up. He needed to go out. It was time to visit his dealer.

 

_Saturday_

He really hadn’t meant for it to happen. He recalled going to the crack house, stepping around the listless forms in the shadowy rooms, searching for his usual contact. And then it was in his hand, and he should have walked away and tossed it out in a random bin like he had before, but this time he didn’t. He gave in and stayed. There was the needle, his arm, a filthy mattress... He'd fucked up. Stupid. But it wouldn't affect the case, he told himself as he walked home bleary-eyed much later. In fact, it might help it. What could be more convincing than reality?


	3. Week 3

He kept to himself the following days, prowling in and out of the flat at odd hours. Mrs. Hudson stopped by to tidy up, and was surprised to see a bare space where John's chair had been. She glanced at Sherlock, who was working intently at something on the laptop.

"Everything all right?" she asked tentatively.

"Of course."

She dried a cup and put it away, then hung up the towel. Unsure what else to say, she gave him a little pat on the shoulder and went back downstairs.

 

_Wednesday_

Janine had sent a message when her flight arrived in the afternoon, then came to Baker Street that evening. Sherlock was on the phone as she came up the stairs, a look of annoyance on his face as he paced back and forth. She closed the door to the flat to avoid interruptions, then leaned against the doorknob and watched the one-sided conversation with amusement.

“No,” he said curtly. “No! For the love of…..” he gritted his teeth. “Fine.”

He listened, fingers drumming against the back of his chair. “Christ, yes, I said I would take care of it, didn’t I?” He hung up abruptly and ran a hand through his hair.

“Was that Mike?” she asked.

At first he didn’t make the connection, then said, “Ah yes, _Mike_. He has another errand for me.”

"Not tonight?"

"I'm afraid so. But not for a while yet.""

"Aren't there spies for this sort of thing?" she joked.

"Of course. But this is bit more off the radar."

She realized he wasn't kidding. "Ok, I won't even ask." She switched subjects. "So why don’t you and Mike get along?”

“History,” he said. “Too much history.”

“If it’s any consolation, I have a brother I don’t get on with either.” She walked over to him, a knowing glint in her eye. “Now, how about a proper welcome back?”

He smiled and pulled her nearer, bending down to give her a deep kiss.

“Mmm, I've been thinking a lot about that,” she said. “More than I’d like to.” She ran her hands down his arms, then took a step back, distracted by something. "Wasn't there a chair there?"

"I moved it."

"Oh," she cast a glance at him but let that go, too. "Were you playing?” she asked, seeing the violin resting on the desk.

"Yes, a bit.”

"I used to take piano lessons when I was a girl." She studied the sheet music on the stand, shrugged. “Now I can barely remember how to read music. It makes me a bit envious.”

"Of what?” he asked, placing the violin back in its case.

“I don't know... Of being able to be fully absorbed in something, to lose yourself." She paused, turning back to him, coming quite close. "It's very seductive.”

His hands faltered for split second as he clicked the case shut. He looked at her, the light bringing out the deep brown of her eyes. He could see that she was beautiful, and he wasn’t completely unaware of her charms. But she was the pawn in a much larger game that was still unfolding, parts of which he couldn’t yet predict.

He had to ask himself again how far was he willing to take this ruse, using her for her access to Magnussen. His instincts told him to go as far as necessary to maintain any sort of advantage in unknown territory.

It would be easier to go through these motions of intimacy if he thought nothing of her, but she had a way of breezing past most of the guards he put up. She was different, able to disarm him in unexpected ways.

She was watching him, waiting. Fine, then; he told himself, on with the game.

He took her hand, lifting her wrist to his lips, drawing her closer. Her skin was warm and fragrant, her mouth lush. He ran a hand down her body, feeling the curves and bones and contours, which he wouldn't object to exploring further.

Janine, usually an instigator, was clearly very willing to be a recipient.

“Go slow,” she whispered in his ear. “Go as slow as you can and drive me insane."

“You may regret those words,” he murmured back, kissing her neck. He calculated how much time remained before he had to tend to the assignment from Mycroft.

*****

Her cheeks were flushed and her breath was shallow as his fingers moved teasingly along the inside of her thighs. Her back arched as he trailed them higher, lingered, then moved across her hip, over her ribs, and to her breasts, causing her to shiver again.

Her arms were thrown back over her head, her hair a mass of dark curls on the pillow.

"You’re killing me,” she accused him breathlessly.

“You're enjoying this," he countered, retracing the pattern. She let out a small moan as his fingertips brushed a particularly sensitive spot.

“And now,” he said softly, “I have to leave.”

“What?” Her eyes flew open.

“I have take care of that errand for my brother,” he answered, moving away from her.

“What about _my_ errand?”

"Completed as requested,” he smiled at her, gathering up his shirt. “Slow,’ perhaps a bit too slow, looking at the time, and now, ‘insane.’”

“You can’t seriously tell me you’re leaving,” she said incredulously.

"You’re welcome to stay here,” he offered, continuing to get dressed. “Not sure when I’ll be back.”

“Sherl,” she protested.

“You may not want to look in the fridge,” he advised, then swept from the room.

Janine stared after him, then threw a pillow at the wall. Unbelievable.

 

_Thursday_

It was late morning when Sherlock returned to Baker Street. Janine was gone, but she had left a note on the kitchen table.     

_You tosser. Call me._

He texted her that afternoon.

     _Dinner?_

Her reply came much later than usual.

_Can't, working late. Horrible day._

It was nearing 10 at night when Sherlock stopped by her flat.

It took her a while to answer the door, and when she did, it was obvious that she had been crying. “Sorry,” she sniffled. “You weren’t supposed to see this part.” She folded her arms across her chest, a glass of wine in her hand. “It was a really crap day.” Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun and she wore an old t-shirt and jeans, making her look even younger.

Sherlock was used to people crying--it came with the territory of crime scenes and morgues and distraught clients--but it was strange to see Janine like this. He thought of her as being eternally buoyant.

He guided her to the sofa, said the words that usually prompted a torrent of emotions from clients. “Tell me what happened.”

“It’s stupid. It was a bad day at work. My boss got angry…” she trailed off. “He’s just so… cruel.” She bowed her head, trying not to break into tears again.

Cruel was a very specific choice of words, Sherlock thought. No doubt it was an accurate description.

“God, I wish I could quit…” she muttered, furiously wiping her eyes.

“Why don’t you?”

She laughed bitterly. “It’s not that easy.” She clenched the wine glass so hard that Sherlock reached over and gently pried it from her fingers before it could shatter.

“Come here,” he said, pulling her against his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry. It’s always such a shock when he gets like that.” She curled into him like a lost cat, his arm around her shoulders. She slowly regained her composure and took a shaky breath. “Sorry,” she said again.

“Don’t apologize,” he said, cupping her chin and wiping away a tear with his thumb.

He was disturbed to find that he was feeling protective of her, despising Magnussen for abusing and humiliating her for what, clearly, was not the first time. Why would she continue to work for a man like that? Was Magnussen blackmailing her? Or maybe she just needed to pay the rent like everyone else. Whatever the situation, he couldn’t afford to get involved. He had to keep his distance, even with her pressed against him. He had to adhere to that line.

She reached up and pulled out the tie that held back her hair, roughly raking her fingers through her curls as if to shake away her mood. “So,” she said, “I’m going to splash some water on my face.”

She got up, and while she was gone Sherlock assessed her flat more closely. He noticed there were no photos displayed, just prints in bright colors, a few fiction books scattered about, a pair of silver hoop earrings abandoned on the top of the small desk against the wall. The space wasn’t cluttered, but it still conveyed a warmth. Somehow it relayed nothing too telling yet something personal at the same time. Curious.

He then picked up her phone. He knew the passcode, having watched her closely before. He quickly scrolled to her calendar and looked at her work schedule for the coming week, skimming through the list of meetings and appointments. He tapped on her contact list and found a direct number for Magnussen. He memorized it and put the phone back as it had been.

When Janine returned, she was still more subdued than usual. “Well, then,” she said. “I’m exhausted.” She sat at the end of the sofa and drew up her knees, hugging them with her arms.

“Here,” he said, handing her back the wine glass. “Finish this, then turn on the telly and find the most rubbish thing on, and I won’t say a word.”

She smiled. “Thanks.” A half hour later she was fast asleep, her head on a pillow propped against his leg, her hair tangling over her cheek. Sherlock got up carefully and covered her with a quilt, turned off the telly and lights, and left quietly.

 

_Friday_

_Feeling much better. Thanks for being there. But then you vanished._

Janine sent the text the next morning, which arrived as Sherlock was reading about the mysterious death of a minor government official. He was certain Mycroft would know something about it.

He debated what to write back to Janine. He put it off, and went about the rest of the morning. It was getting complicated, which irritated him. Caring was not an advantage. Just play the part and get the letters, he reminded himself.

He paced to the window, looked at his watch. He decided it was time to visit the old house.

*****

Just a moment ago he had been fading back into a painless dream, the afternoon sunlight slanting through the dusty windows. Now suddenly it was dark and he was awake, startled to find himself on the floor of the crack house getting his ribs kicked in by a strung-out teenager who hastily went through his pockets for anything he could steal.

He lay there in the grit, trying to collect his thoughts. He gingerly felt his ribs. Nothing broken, but there’d be some bruising. He'd let his guard down. Stupid again. He finally staggered to his feet.

The sun was just beginning to rise as he made his way home. Once there, he stood under a hot shower for a long time, then fell into bed. It's for the case, he repeated to himself, it's for the case. He felt hollow and pulled the sheet over his head.

_Saturday_

He woke much later to the sound of dishes rattling in the kitchen. He eased himself up into a sitting position, grunting at the pain of it. Footsteps, then Janine popping her head in.

“You’re awake. Mrs. Hudson let me in.” Her smile vanished when she saw the blue and purple marks on his side. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“It’s nothing. I was… someplace where I should have been more careful.”

“Nothing? That looks terrible!”

“I’ve had worse." He ruefully recalled Serbia. “I’ll survive. What time is it?”

“About 4. On _Saturday_ ,” she emphasized. “I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday. Are you sure you’re all right?”

"Yes. Mostly." He really didn’t know. “But I could do with some tea."

"Fine,” she replied curtly, but then didn’t press the matter. “I was going to make some anyway.”

She returned soon with two mugs. She stood for a moment, cradling her tea in her hands, giving him a hard look that made him avert his eyes.

She made a decision. “Hold this,” she said, handing him her mug. She pulled down the zipper of her dress and wriggled it off, leaving it crumpled on the floor. She climbed under the sheets next to him, took back her tea, and leaned against his shoulder. He really didn’t mind.

There was a long silence.

“What are we doing?” Janine asked softly, not looking at him.

“Drinking tea,” he answered, deliberately sidestepping her underlying question.

“I should stay here tonight," she finally said.

“You should.”


	4. Week 4

_Sunday_

Sherlock gave Janine a spare key the next morning since she insisted on running several errands for him and was in and out of the flat. He didn’t ask for it back. His side still ached, but he ignored it and scrolled through his inbox catching up on missed correspondence.

He was in a silent mood, and Janine spent the time reading a book. In the early afternoon she checked her phone. "I should go home and do a few things." She went over to where he was sitting at the desk. "Do you want me to come back later?"

Part of him wanted to be alone, but another part didn't. "Sure," he said.

"All right, see you in a bit." She placed a kiss on his forehead and left.

He dipped into his stash of cigarettes and went for a long walk and a smoke, studiously avoiding any routes that would take him near the old house. He had to keep his focus.

When he returned to Baker Street hours later, he drew a bath and sank into the hot water, the heat unwinding his muscles. He needed a new case, just something small to keep him occupied. Tomorrow he would choose something.

He stayed in the bath until the water cooled. After drying off, he wrapped a towel around his waist and went to the bedroom.

“Someone likes a long soak.” Janine was sitting on the bed, a book propped up on her knees.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I can be very quiet.” She put the book down and stood up, her fingers going to the bruise on his side, now a purple and greenish hue. “That should start fading by the end of the week,” she mused. “You’re not going to tell me what happened, are you?”

“It’s not relevant.”

“Ok,” she said eventually, then climbed to her knees, reaching up to wipe away drops of water from his shoulder that had fallen from the damp curls at the back of his neck. She tilted her head as she met his eyes. “I suppose I have to accept that, along with a lot of other things. You’re not a... safe man, but I knew that.”

“Safe is just another word for boring, isn’t it?”

“Boring has its place," she answered. Her fingers skimmed down his chest, slipping under the top edge of the towel. “And so does revenge. I owe you some tantalizing, but ultimately unfulfilling, payback.”

The towel fell to the floor.

 

_Monday & Tuesday_

Sherlock spent the next two days on a small, innocuous case for a private client that involved investigating the disappearance of a set of rare books. He had several of his homeless network checking bookstores and a contact in Paris following a lead.

On Tuesday morning, he sent a text to Magnussen’s private number asking for a meeting to negotiate the return of the letters to Lady Smallwood. He heard back within two hours. They would meet in a few days at Magnussen’s office. Sherlock would have to arrange for Janine to be absent when he arrived.

His schedule had not crossed much with hers, although she had brought take-away and lost to him at Cluedo last night. She had stayed over, going to sleep and getting up before he did. It was strange sharing a bed, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She had nestled against his back, her breathing slow and rhythmic, which he found oddly calming.

In the morning he had heard her quietly moving around as she got ready for work, then felt a gentle kiss on the cheek, the dab of her finger rubbing off traces of lipstick. Her heels clicked rapidly on the floor when she saw she was running late, then the muffled sound of the door closing. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to have another person living in the flat.

It was now Tuesday afternoon, and time for a visit to the old house. A supposed drug habit meant frequenting the place, after all.

*****

He was lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling when Janine came to Baker Street that evening. He wasn't feeling perfectly lucid yet. He knew he probably ought to say something, but couldn’t quite string the words together, and frankly didn't want to. She was looking at him with a somber gaze, and yes, there it was, disappointment. He knew that look well, had seen it a thousand times. He braced himself for drama, accusations, but again she said nothing. He closed his eyes until he heard the bedroom door shut with a click.

 

_Wednesday, early morning_

He opened one eye to the sound of two mugs banging against the kitchen table. He sat up on on the sofa, his back and neck stiff.

"I'm making coffee." Janine stood in front of him, wearing one of his shirts, her legs bare and her face carefully composed into a neutral expression. "Anything you’d like to tell me?”

He stayed seated and rubbed his neck. "It’s not what you think.”

She let out a short, unamused laugh. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m stupid." She turned her back and went to the kitchen.

“It’s work. For a case.” The words came out more gruffly than he meant them to.

“Whatever you say, Sherl.” She focused on pouring the coffee and adding sugar. "You look like hell," she added for good measure.

He felt like hell.

She set the mug in front of him none too gently, coffee sloshing over the side.

"I hope you know what you're doing," she said darkly.

_Thursday_

Sherlock rapidly typed a response to his Paris contact, who had let him know that the books had been traced to the house of an antiquities dealer with connections to a black market art ring. At least one small justice was restored, he thought.

He was surprised when Janine showed up at the flat in the late afternoon. He raised an eyebrow in question from behind the microscope, his jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled up.

"I left work a bit early. Said I had a headache," she explained, kicking off her shoes and walking to the kitchen where he was sitting. “What’s under there?” she asked, peering over his shoulder.

“Carpet fiber and dried blood.”

“Hmm,” she straightened up again. “So, about yesterday… How much longer is that particular case of yours going to last?"

"It'll be over soon," he said, then decided to add, “I just need to convince someone that I have an illegal habit.”

“Do you?” she asked pointedly.

“No,” he waited a beat, almost said something about his past, but then didn’t. “It’s part of an act.”

She fiddled with an empty Petri dish. “Watch yourself, though."

He returned to the microscope, said offhandedly, "I'm fairly indestructible."

“No, Sherl,” Janine shook her head, "you're not. You're flesh and blood, full of of bruises and pain and nicotine and whatever other chemicals you’ve injected…”

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. He’d never heard her say anything quite like that before.

“Look," she pressed her hands flat on the table. “It’s not my business, but I’d hate to see you end up like the poor sod whose blood splatter is on that slide.”

He was silent, finally saying, “I’ll… take that into consideration.”

“Do that." She turned, leaning against the table so that she was facing him.

He felt exposed under her gaze, and didn’t particularly care for the sensation. He countered by looking at Janine more closely, determining that he had perhaps underestimated her. Beneath her carefree exterior he now detected a steeliness born of unhappy experience. He recalled her simply furnished flat, and recognized similarities from his own two years of constantly being on the move. He’d wager she could pack up and disappear in 30 minutes, if need be.

And then there was Magnussen; Sherlock was now convinced he had some sort of hold over her. All of this would have been an enticing puzzle if he weren’t in the middle of it, trying to orchestrate the situation without a clear understanding of all the parts.

He was meeting with Magnussen at 11 tomorrow and couldn’t afford to lose any ground with Janine. What he needed to do at this moment was to reassure her that she was his priority, not The Work. He knew what to say.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I’m not indestructible. I know that all too well. And now you know it, too.”

He saw her expression soften and he stood, placing his hands on her waist, slowly drawing her in. “You know me better than anyone,” he murmured in a low voice, gently sweeping a tendril of her hair behind her ear, then lowering his mouth to hers for a long, soft kiss.

She sighed, resting her palms against his chest. “I know pieces of you," she corrected. "But I think I understand you."

She read the question on his face. “You choose to call yourself indestructible, but I prefer to think of myself as a survivor,” she explained. “Different words, same results."

Once again, he hadn’t expected that. Every time he thought he had her pegged, she shifted to reveal another facet. Interesting. “Who are you?” he mused, his hands tilting her face up.

“The girl next door,” she answered without answering. “Flesh and blood.” She smiled, took hold of his lapels and walked slowly backwards until she reached the bedroom and sank down on the mattress, pulling him after her.

Curiosity was getting the better of him. He tasted her lips, her tongue, the hollow of her neck. He pressed his weight against her, as if sheer physical contact would reveal what was in her head. Who was she?

Janine drew her leg up, their hips fitting together as she clasped her arms around his back and arched against him. Even through clothing, he could feel her heat. His hand slid under her skirt as her fingers went to his waist.

It was then that he noticed the shadows on the wall had became saturated with flickering blue and red lights from the street outside the window.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered.

There was a pounding at the downstairs door, then the familiar voice of Detective Inspector Lestrade asking for Sherlock.

Janine groaned. "God, not again.”

There was the sound of feet on the stairs then a firm knocking at the door to the flat, which Janine had gotten in the habit of closing. “Sherlock!” Lestrade shouted. “You’re going to like this one. A murder, suspected poisoning."

Janine looked at Sherlock. "You want to go, don't you?"

It did sound promising, he had to admit. She could see it in his face.

"I give up. Go," she pushed him off. "All this talk of murder is killing the mood, anyway."

He might argue with that, but Lestrade was pounding on the door again. "Shut up, Geoff! Give me a minute," Sherlock shouted back. "Sorry," he added, glancing back at Janine

She shrugged halfheartedly, watched him seamlessly shift back into the consulting detective. Then she suddenly remembered. "Oh, I almost forgot. I spoke with Mary the other day. I didn't mention... us, being together and all.  Maybe leave it for a surprise."

He hadn't seen John in a month, Sherlock realized with a stab.

"Right, fine," he said distractedly, and finished buttoning his cuffs. "See you later." He left the room, closing the bedroom door behind him and opening the door for Lestrade.

*****

The murder had been fairly intriguing. Sherlock had honed in on a rare poison, but the lab would have to confirm the results. It was late, and he stopped outside a cafe to smoke the cigarette he had bummed off Lestrade.

The work had cleared his head a bit, and now he was hesitant to go back to Baker Street. He was juggling too many things -- the letters, Magnussen, additional cases, now the enigma that was Janine; he risked losing his focus going down that last path. He had to keep Magnussen at the forefront. He didn't know what to make of Janine's mysterious comments about being a survivor. She had a story of some sort, but then, didn't everybody? A dark secret or questionable motivation or checkered past.

But she had gotten to him at some level. He’d let himself slip too far into domesticity, growing accustomed to sharing tea and warm bedclothes and seeing her shoes scattered on the floor. He didn't need a flat mate. It was all a charade.

The professional and personal were becoming blurred, distorting his objectivity.

He ground out the cigarette.

He had to let the matter go, keep his priorities in order.

He wasn’t returning to the flat tonight. Instead, he stopped by one of his bolt holes, changed clothes, and headed toward the crack house. Just one more visit wouldn't hurt.

_Friday morning_

Sherlock's face still hurt where Molly had slapped him, quite hard, several times, after seeing the drug screen results. The morning had been madness --  John finding him at the crack house, being carted off to Bart’s, Mycroft lying in wait at Baker Street, and Anderson, for god’s sake,pawing through his things. The only good news was the newspapers picking up the scent of his drug use.

He had just explained things to John and was now running a bath, sinking under the water to clear the fog of irritation he felt. He heard voices in the hallway. Well, John now knew about Janine. He wondered what John’s face was doing.

There was a quick tap at the door, then Janine slipped into the bathroom. “Morning! Room for a little one?”

She closed the door, pulled his shirt she was wearing over her head, stepped out of her knickers.

“Morning,” he said, helping her into the tub.

She slipped a bit, “Ooh!” She laughed, water splashing as she leaned her back against his chest. She turned her head toward him, then whispered, “John’s nearly having a heart attack, I think. It makes me want to be a bit naughty."

She adjusted his hands, placing one between her legs. "That's better," she said.

He was still coming down from his high, agitated by Mycroft and the entire morning, so the sensation of warm, wet, slick skin against skin was a welcome diversion. Janine gasped a little as he moved his fingers in a circular motion.

"Shhh," he reminded her, but didn't stop. In his current dark mood, maybe he didn't care what John heard after all.

Janine let her head relax against his chest, her knees drawn up, water sloshing in time to the rhythmic motion of her hips. Soon after Janine made another noise, and water splashed over the side of the tub.

"Mmm,” she breathed out after a moment. "Finally."

She stretched luxuriously, then turned and met his eyes, taking in his rough state. "Late night again," she observed, smoothing her hand along his cheek. Her face became more serious. "I wish..." she started, then halted, lowering her eyes. When she lifted them again, her smile held a trace of sadness. "Falling for you is the biggest mistake I've ever made," she admitted softly.

He felt a flicker of guilt, or remorse, maybe, but said nothing. She then shook herself from her thoughts and give him a quick kiss. "You need a shave. And I'm going to be so late."

She stepped from the tub and wrapped herself in a towel, then turned toward the mirror, using her fingers to untangle the damp ends of her hair.

He was being cruel, he knew, putting Janine in this situation. But that’s what he was, ultimately. A selfish, cold manipulator. At least that's what he had to believe in order to finish the case.

Sherlock watched her for a few seconds, then closed his eyes, gathering strength for the day ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more Janine and Sherlock one year later, you may wish to continue on to the short story "Diversions."  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1165549


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